


No Foreign Land

by wendymr



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lewis_Challenge Secret Santa, Multi, Shameless jumping on the threesome bandwagon, casefic, post-s8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:57:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3189815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Too often, for James, the past isn’t a foreign country.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [divingforstones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/divingforstones/gifts).



> Written for Divingforstones, my recipient in the Lewis_Challenge Secret Santa exchange on LJ, and I was delighted to have the opportunity to write for her. With many thanks to Lindenharp for BRing support. This has been tweaked since the LJ posting, though differences are very minor and will probably not be noticeable to most people who read it on LJ.

“I hear your place has dry rot.”

James leans back in his office chair, giving Robbie a resigned look. “Lizzie.”

“To be fair,” Robbie says, dropping into the visitor chair, “she assumed I knew.”

James shrugs. “It didn’t seem important.”

“Not important? Me best mate’s camping out at a B&B for the next couple of weeks an’ that’s not important?”

“It’s not.” James sets down the pen he was holding. “As you say, a couple of weeks and everything will be back to normal.”

“S’pose you’d say you’re barely home enough to notice,” Robbie comments dryly, and James nods. That’s it exactly. Oh, it’s a bit inconvenient, he won’t deny that, not least being the fact that he can’t cook for himself when he wants to, but it won’t be long and work will keep him busy enough not to notice. 

He frowns abruptly at Robbie’s next words. “Well, sod that for a game of soldiers. You’re moving into our spare bedroom, where you should’ve been from the start. Bring your stuff over tonight after you clock off. Which,” he adds with a glance at his watch, “should be in under an hour from now, seeing as all you’re doing is CPS paperwork.”

James shakes his head. “Robbie, that’s kind of you, but it’s completely unnecessary. What’s more, I’d be underfoot—”

“Don’t talk nonsense.” Robbie gets to his feet. “I won’t take no for an answer — an’ what’s more, if you’re not over at the house by seven this evening, I’ll send Laura to get you.” He grins suddenly. “Left her sharpening her scalpels in the morgue just now.”

He pretends to wince, though he’s well aware that the first part of the threat is very real. Robbie doesn’t even need to tell him that Laura would echo the invitation, and make damn sure he took them up on it.

“Thank you — both of you. I’ll do my best not to play gooseberry.” He gives Robbie a quick, grateful smile as his friend leaves the room, the smile widening to a smirk at his friend’s eye-rolling.

* * *

Of course staying with Robbie and Laura will be far preferable to the B&B. He’s very fond of both of them, and they’ve always made him welcome in their home, the Victorian detached house on the edge of Marston they bought together while he was in Spain. And he likes being at their house. They’ve made it so very homely: warm and welcoming, always smelling of inviting aromas, whether it be the scent of cooking or baking, or greenery of some sort. So different from his sterile flat, or Robbie’s succession of flats that, except in the last few months before he moved, always had a temporary air about them. 

It will help that he’s even managed, more or less, to get over his long-term yearning for Robbie; significant exposure to Robbie and Laura as such a well-matched couple will do that, of course. Robbie is now safely assigned to the category of friend, and he is genuinely fond of Laura, and happy that the two of them have found what they need in each other. It’s just that, although he was joking with Robbie about not playing gooseberry, they _are_ a couple, and he’d really rather not feel in the way. Or have them need to go out of their way to see that he doesn’t feel in the way.

Still, it is only two weeks. And, although it’s early December, a time of year when an interloper would be more in the way than at any other point in the calendar, he’ll be gone, safely back in his own flat, a week before Christmas. 

So, at ten to seven exactly, he rings the doorbell of Robbie and Laura’s house. It’s opened promptly enough that he knows Robbie was watching from the window. “Give me those an’ go back and get the rest.” Robbie relieves him of his guitar and the two suit-bags he’s carrying. 

When he returns with a holdall and a suitcase, Laura is waiting to usher him inside, and there’s an inviting aroma coming from the kitchen. His guitar’s still in the hall, but she directs him upstairs. “Spare bedroom — you know which one. Robbie’s hanging up your suits. And, James?”

He looks down at her over the banister. “Laura?”

“I give all my _friends_ three strikes. Don’t—”

“Use them all up at once?” He smiles, rueful; of course, as Robbie’d already pointed out, she would also be put out that he hadn’t mentioned his temporary homelessness.

“Precisely.”

* * *

“This is brilliant timing, actually,” Laura says later over a post-dinner glass of wine. “I’ve been wanting to get the decorations up, but I’m not tall enough to do it without a ladder. And Mr Handyman here, who couldn’t even finish a canoe on his own, won’t let me use one.”

James raises an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you put up with it.” He gives Robbie a sly grin. “Letting himself here boss you around.”

Robbie snorts. “She’s the boss around here, and don’t I know it.”

“I think I’m going to enjoy staying with you two.” James smirks as he takes a drink of wine. “After seven years of being bossed around by Robbie, it’ll be a refreshing change to watch him on the receiving end.”

“I might be beginning to regret me invitation,” Robbie grumbles, then grunts as Laura elbows him in the side. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll appreciate it when you can reap the benefits of my breakfast-making skills.” James raises his glass in Robbie’s direction. “And cadge a lift to work if you don’t feel like driving.”

“Oi, flexible hours, me,” Robbie points out. “I’ve no intention of putting in the insane days you do.”

“Which will stop, at least while you’re staying here, if you know what’s good for you,” Laura insists, voice crisp. “I am not having you drop dead of a heart attack from overwork, James Hathaway.”

“Been telling him that for years,” Robbie says, pulling a face. Yes, along with the fact that he needs a partner — though, to be fair, Robbie hasn’t mentioned that for a couple of years now. 

“Well, now he’s got two of us who can actually keep an eye on his comings and goings,” Laura says, a glint in her eye as she smiles at James. “Just because you have a key, Detective Inspector, that doesn’t mean you can sneak in at two in the morning and leave three hours later.”

“Understood. I will expect to find the exits booby-trapped were I foolish enough to try to disobey.” James smirks at her in return.

“One word from Laura an’ you’re all compliant,” Robbie complains. “Where did I go wrong all those years?”

* * *

James hasn’t shared living accommodation with anyone since he left the seminary, and in some ways it’s an adjustment — especially as he’s very conscious that he’s a guest in someone else’s home. True, it’s not as if he isn’t already completely at home in Robbie and Laura’s house; he’s been a frequent visitor since he took his head out of his arse and started allowing himself time to accept their invitations. Despite Laura and Robbie’s comments on his working hours, he’s been a lot better since he started delegating some work to Lizzie.

It’s things like being sociable first thing in the morning, before he’s had his first cup of coffee, that take a bit of getting used to. And realising that normal people who share accommodation generally try to eat an evening meal together at a reasonable time, and that they’d quite like him to join them for that, if he’s not actually on a call-out. It’s tempting to find an excuse when it’s Robbie’s turn to cook, but the look Laura gives him in the morning as he’s leaving tells him that there will be Consequences if he’s not home as expected.

And anyway, of course it’s not an obligation. It’s a privilege, and one he’ll make the most of while it lasts. Just because they’re giving him a comfortable roof over his head doesn’t mean they have to treat him as one of the family, but they are, and it’s more than kind of them. Even if it means pretending to enjoy burnt lasagne.

And, regardless of all that, it’s... _good_. It’s the kind of environment he’s never had and always told himself he’s never missed: a warm, comfortable environment full of affection, laughter and teasing, where he’s made welcome and encouraged to feel part of daily life at Robbie and Laura’s home. Temporarily, of course. Short enough that he’s not going to get too used to it, but long enough that he can look back on it fondly and with gratitude. 

On his fourth morning, he’s woken by the shrill of his mobile, which he silences as quickly as possible, conscious of Robbie and Laura asleep in the next room. A body found dumped in a skip in Headington. He dresses quickly and quietly and makes his way downstairs, and is just debating whether making himself coffee would create too much noise when Laura appears in the kitchen.

“Callout? Body in Headington?” she asks, going straight to the kettle. Well, it is extremely cold outside, and he’s pretty sure the white he glimpsed on the ground outside isn’t just mist.

“Yes and yes.” He lounges against the counter. “Well, at least I know I’ll have a reliable pathologist this time.”

Laura snorts. They’ve commiserated over what happened on James’s last case, where the new Home Office pathologist who’s just joined the rotation misidentified the cause of death as a heart attack instead of a forcible drug overdose, and it had taken considerable pressure from James to get a second opinion. “We can’t all be geniuses, sadly. I occasionally have to put up with Peterson.”

“My sympathies.” Peterson, while not an idiot, is a plodder rather than a Robbie Lewis — or a DCI Morse, he suspects. James grins, then smiles in appreciation as Laura passes him coffee, made just as he likes it. “Robbie’s still asleep, I hope? I did try not to make any noise getting up.”

“Oh, he could sleep through a bloody hurricane.” Laura shakes her head. “I really need to find out his secret.”

“His snoring’s that bad, then?” James grimaces in sympathy. “I haven’t heard anything.” Though this is an old house, solidly built. The interior walls are brick throughout, so soundproofing is considerably better than at his flat. 

Laura grins. “I’ve known worse — not that I’m telling him that!” She drains her coffee. “Suppose we should get moving. Although at least the DI on this case can’t complain if I’m late.”

“As if any of us would ever dare.” James holds the door open for her. It’s a new experience, this: a few minutes’ relaxation with idle conversation before heading out to an early-morning crime scene. Although he did spend the occasional night at Robbie’s over the years, it was never when they were on call.

And he was right: there is snow on the ground. Just perfect. 

Well, at least these days he’s not the one who’ll have been freezing his arse out there for the past half-hour, waiting for the DI and pathologist. That’s Maddox’s job now. He grimaces in remembered sympathy even as he waves a temporary farewell to Laura, and mentally calculates which of his possible routes will take him past an open coffee-shop.

* * *

“You an’ Laura must’ve crept out of the house like mice this morning.”

James looks around from the murder-board he and Lizzie have been assembling since they finally got back to the nick in the early afternoon, and smiles at Robbie. “According to your delightful lady-love, you sleep like one of her corpses. You wouldn’t have heard us if we’d trampled around like a herd of elephants.”

Out of the corner of his eye, James catches Lizzie smirking. She sees him looking and instantly composes her features. He smiles conspiratorially at her before turning his attention back to Robbie.

“Yeah, yeah, funny,” Robbie mutters. “Got used to sleeping through Laura’s call-outs while I wasn’t working, didn’t I? Anyway, what’s all this about?” He waves at the board.

James gestures at Lizzie to summarise what they know so far: male, late twenties, single stab wound to the chest with bruising showing evidence of restraint from behind. Suspicions of drug use, though no puncture marks. And, according to the searches Lizzie has conducted on the name in the victim’s wallet — with picture ID, so they’re fairly certain of identification — no criminal record, and his most recent place of employment was ASDA, as a shelf-stocker. He and Lizzie have already spoken to the victim’s manager and confirmed both his work record and the fact that he didn’t turn up for work this morning.

So far, they’re going with the theory that he may have been killed by his dealer for non-payment, to set an example. It’s not ideal; James agrees with Robbie’s objection that he’s never seen the point in dealers murdering their customers. They’re not going to get paid that way, and it could scare off future customers. Regardless, it’s all they’ve got right now.

Lizzie’s phone rings, and after a short exchange she turns back. “Sorry, sir, I know I’m supposed to go with you to Hudson’s bedsit, but SOCO’s just turned up some things they want me to take a look at. Do you want to wait until I get back?”

“No need,” Robbie interrupts before James can answer. “I’ll go with you. Got nothing important on at the moment.”

In other words, he’s stuck on paperwork and fancies getting his hands dirty again. James doesn’t bother suppressing the amused grin that deduction prompts. “Yeah, all right, then. Let me know if SOCO has anything important, Maddox.”

“Will do, sir. And sir,” she adds with a nod to Robbie.

“You did well there,” Robbie comments, not for the first time, as they leave the incident room. “Almost as well as I did,” he adds casually. “Almost.”

“I should put in a complaint,” James says. “Don’t I deserve as good a bagman as you got?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t want to work with yourself. Wouldn’t last the week.”

* * *

The bedsit is depressingly as James had expected. Clothes litter the bed and the floor, there’s mould growing in the crockery left out in the kitchenette, and the room stinks of stale sweat and rotting food. He and Robbie, crime-scene boots and gloves in place, start their search, with Robbie offering to take the kitchen area, much to James’s relief.

Nothing in or around the bed, other than signs of an active sex-life of some description, and nothing of interest among the clutter on the bedside cabinet. It’s when James moves to the shelf against the opposite wall — half-obscured by a couch James isn’t all that keen on getting too close to — that his existing conclusions about Andrew Hudson, drug addict and murder victim, are shaken to the core.

There’s a whole row of textbooks there — texts that James knows very well, because they’re required reading for an undergraduate degree in theology. He pulls one off the shelf and opens it. Inside, on the flyleaf, Hudson’s written his name, followed by Blackfriars Hall.

Still stunned, he fumbles for his mobile and calls Maddox. “When you’re back at the nick, can you check whether Hudson was a student at Blackfriars Hall, and whether he graduated?”

“I’m back now,” she says immediately. “If you can hold on...”

“I’ll wait.” He replaces the book on the shelf, his eye skimming the others. Blackfriars, like St Gerard’s Hall, is a Permanent Private Hall, part of the university and which offers degrees in a limited range of subjects. Like St Gerard’s, it’s run by a religious order, in this case Dominicans — Roman Catholics. If his memory is correct, Blackfriars’ main focus is theology, though also offers PPE. 

“Sir? He graduated. BA in theology and philosophy, 2010. What’s an Oxford graduate doing working at ASDA?”

“Employers aren’t exactly beating down the doors for theology graduates, take my word for it,” he comments. “But I imagine the drugs have a lot to do with that.” 

“Though I can’t understand how he’s able to afford a drug habit on minimum wage.” Maddox is typing in the background. “He got a 2:1, by the way. Clever bloke.”

“Mm.” He pulls a face. “All right, we’ll finish up here and see you back at base — you can update me on SOCO then.” He hangs up and turns back to the shelf, attention caught by a book that’s shelved backwards. 

He pulls it out, and immediately his perception is shaken further still. It’s _A Spiritual Theology of the Priesthood: The Mystery of Christ and the Mission of the Priest_ — a standard text for Catholic seminarians in the UK. With a churning sense of inevitability, he opens the cover. And there, on the flyleaf, is the inscription _Andrew Hudson, St Peter’s Seminary, Oxford_.

A seminarian. An intending priest — _how_ did the Andrew Hudson he’s coming to learn from this bookshelf end up murdered in a skip in Headington? And why has the past he’d prefer to forget have to intrude on a case yet again?

“James?” Robbie calls from the kitchen. “Found something.”

“Me too. Come and look at this.” He turns, seeing Robbie hold up a plastic bag containing small white pills. “Drugs?” he queries.

“Yeah. Pharmaceutical methamphetamine, if my guess is right. Bit more here than you’d expect for a casual user, too. What’ve you got?”

“So maybe a dealer himself?” James muses, then shows Robbie the book.

Robbie’s eyebrows shoot up. “He was a priest?”

“Or dropped out — or was thrown out,” James counters. “Easy enough to find out if he was ordained, though I doubt it.”

Robbie nods, then points towards the inscription. “Was that...?”

“The seminary I studied at? Yes.” He can’t help it; he’s avoiding what he knows is Robbie’s concerned gaze.

“Come on.” Robbie touches his arm briefly. “We’ve seen all we need to for now. SOCO can take care of it from here. Let’s get back.”

He nods, and tells himself the shiver that runs through him as he puts the book back on the shelf is only due to the temperature dropping below freezing again as darkness falls outside.

* * *

“You should let Maddox an’ me speak to the seminary people.” They’re at home later — Laura and Robbie’s home, though it’s getting harder for James to remind himself of that, since they’ve been making him so welcome.

Welcome in so many ways. He’d still be at the nick now if Robbie hadn’t insisted that there was nothing urgent to do tonight, that the next steps in the investigation could wait until the morning. He’d been up since five, Robbie’d reminded him, and his friend had refused to let him do anything other than come back to this warm, hospitable environment, so different from the fairly Spartan flat he’ll be going back to in a week or so.

Just as well his stay here will be as short as that. It will be far too easy to get used to this, to imagine in some part of his subconscious that this is his home, that Robbie and Laura are his... family, for want of a better word. They’re being kind; more than kind, not letting him feel in any way like an intruder, or even just a temporary visitor, but that’s just because they’re kind people.

A line from _Nicholas Nickleby_ flashes through his mind: _"When I speak of home, I speak of the place where — in default of a better — those I love are gathered together.”_ In the past, he’s always shrugged off that sentiment. But now, for the first time, the truth of it is starkly, cruelly apparent. For this place, these two people, are not his home.

He shoves the unwelcome, pointless reflection aside and focuses on Robbie’s recommendation.

“No, I should do it,” he counters, even though the prospect doesn’t exactly fill him with delight. “I know the place, probably even some of the people. I’m familiar with the culture. I know how to handle them.” And, though he’s not going to say so, Maddox would not be welcomed, at least by some of the permanent staff he remembers, assuming they’re still at the seminary. Robbie would say he shouldn’t pander to prejudice, but it’s not about that; it’s about making sure they get the information they need and don’t have to go back. Once will most definitely be as much as he can handle.

“I don’t doubt that, but it won’t be easy for you. James, d’you not think it’d be better just to leave it to us?”

Of course Robbie’s only expressing concern for his welfare, not questioning his ability to remain objective. Of course he knows that. “Thank you, but I really think I’m likely to get more out of them than either you or Maddox.”

Robbie looks at him for a long moment, then nods. “I’m coming with you, then. Leave Maddox to liaise with the Drug Squad.”

James gives him a grateful smile. “That’d be great. Thank you.” 

“Is that coffee I smell?” Laura calls as she lets herself in. “It’s bloody freezing out there!”

“I’ll get it.” James heads to the kitchen; he owes her after this morning. “Want a dash of something stronger in it?”

“Best not. I’m still on call.” She kisses Robbie, and then, as James passes the coffee to her, stretches up to kiss his cheek. He bends to make it easy for her, then kisses her back. It still surprises him, her ease at showing him affection; he’s well aware that he’s far from being an easy person to do that with. And it’s not as if he’d ever made a habit of that with Laura previously; in fact, the only time he can remember making physical contact, other than offering the occasional hand to help her out of a hole or over a fence, was when he’d held her and comforted her in what could have been her grave. She’d clung to him then, yes — but out of terror, not affection.

“Any developments on our corpse?” Laura asks later, when they’ve adjourned to the living-room after dinner. 

Robbie provides some details, but doesn’t reveal what they discovered at Hudson’s flat. Respecting his privacy, of course, but even as he realises that James knows he doesn’t want to hide this from Laura. “And the mystery deepens,” he says, in the driest tone he can summon. “Apparently, Andrew Hudson was a theology student — a seminarian.”

Laura’s not remotely fooled, he sees immediately. “Oh, James! Your seminary?”

He nods, then takes advantage of the glass of wine in his hand to avoid speaking. Without a word, Laura comes over and sits on the arm of his armchair, her shoulder pressing against his. 

“I’m sure there’s an ancient Greek god I’ve managed to piss off somewhere along the way,” he says after a moment. “What’s this — the third time my past has played a prominent role in a case? Should have applied to a force somewhere with lots of sheep, clearly.”

Laura covers his hand with hers. “Then we’d never have met you, and that would’ve been a shame.”

“More than a shame.” Robbie’s gaze holds his, his expression speaking volumes. 

James turns his hand over and squeezes Laura’s, at the same time looking back at Robbie with a faint smile. “Definitely more than a shame, from my perspective.”

* * *

Although yesterday he’d been helping out informally, Robbie spoke to Innocent and has now got himself officially assigned to this case on a part-time basis. It means that, so long as this aspect of the investigation is merely a routine elimination of one period of Hudson’s life from their enquiries, no-one else need become aware of James’s past — which is exactly how he wants it.

“I’m sure this has nothing to do with why Hudson was murdered,” he says to Robbie as they’re on their way to the seminary. “Why would it?”

“You’re probably right, of course,” Robbie says, his tone calm in a way James recognises. His one-time governor’s humouring him.

He glances briefly at Robbie. “What?”

Robbie shrugs. “Well, it was only three or four years ago, yeah? An’ we don’t know how long he was there. Maddox’s only got work history for him going back two years.”

“That’s still possibly up to two years since he left. And there are any number of reasons why trainees priests drop out.” He’s sounding defensive, and he knows it.

“Yeah, I know.” Robbie’s sounding relaxed now, which generally tells James that he’s more alert than ever. “Not able to come to terms with celibacy, losing their faith, realising they didn’t really have a vocation after all, falling in love...”

“Getting thrown out for some reason or other, failing exams. All the usual reasons students don’t complete degrees, and a few more besides.” Or more than one of the above, such as in his own case. And he should have known; of course Robbie would never make this about him. He’s doing that very nicely all by himself.

“Who are we seeing?” Robbie asks as James parks in front of the seminary and puts the _Police: Official Business_ card against the windscreen.

“The Principal, Father Michael Connolly.” And how James had hoped, when he’d phoned to make the appointment, that Connolly would have retired or moved on to another position by now. No such luck, and he should have known it. After all, whenever his past takes pride of place in a case, the same _dramatis personae_ always have to be there to taunt him. 

Knowing his luck, Father Chisholm will still be there, and he’ll run into the nit-picky old priest.

“Know him?” Robbie asks as they leave the car, crunching across the couple of inches of fresh snow that’s fallen overnight.

“Yes. He was principal when I was here.” And how much easier it is to do this when he’s not trying to hide things from Robbie at the same time as investigating the case. How foolish he was, all those years ago, not to explain his connection with the cases when he could have. He should have known his governor wouldn’t ask for any more information than was absolutely necessary for the investigation.

Robbie’s hand rests lightly on his back as they make their way to the entrance. To any observer, it would look as if Robbie were just steering James in the right direction; to James, it’s exactly the support and reassurance he needs going into this. As was the wordless hug Laura’d given him as they all left the house this morning.

If he’d only had the courage to ask for it, he could have had this unquestioning understanding in those previous cases, too. Lesson learned, albeit several years late.

* * *

“James Hathaway! I did wonder when I was told a Detective Inspector Hathaway wished to see me. I had heard you’d become a policeman.” The last word’s said in a tone that suggests the role is on a level with _road-sweeper_.

Father Connolly hasn’t changed much. Well, somewhat less hair than when James saw him last, and rather more liberal applications of Grecian 2000, but still the same stiff, stick-thin, twitchy old-school priest. Still, in defiance of more modern standards and customs, wearing a floor-length cassock, a large crucifix around his neck.

James steps forward, hand extended. “Father Connolly. How are you?” Barely waiting for a response, he gestures to Robbie. “Detective Inspector Robert Lewis. As I mentioned when I made the appointment, we’re investigating the suspicious death of a former student of St Peter’s.”

“Yes, Father Jones mentioned that. I was not aware that any of our local clergy had...?”

“It’s possible — in fact, quite likely — that the victim might not have been ordained.” Robbie’s standing right at James’s shoulder, as if he knows how much James’s gut is already churning to be standing here, in the same room where he stated his intention to leave the seminary. More than twelve years ago now.

“Andrew Hudson.” James watches Connolly carefully. It was always the little things with him. And there it is; a very, very faint shudder. He’s fairly certain Robbie will have missed it. 

“Yes. You’re correct, Inspector Lewis; he was not ordained.” 

Robbie nods. “When did he leave the seminary?”

“He had just started his second year. So that would have been...” Connolly considers briefly. “October 2011.”

“And why...?” 

“We do not disclose that sort of confidential information about former students — even those who do not complete their training. As Inspector Hathaway will appreciate, I’m quite sure.” And now the disdain is loudly apparent in Connolly’s voice and bearing.

Of course he’d bring up James’s departure, and he’d hint, in front of James’s colleague, that there was something shameful in it. Just typical of the old spider.

And, typical of Robbie, he’s having none of it. “This is a murder investigation, sir.” And there it is: that thinly-veiled impatience, the _don’t mess me around_ edge to his voice.

But it has no effect on Father Connolly. “I reiterate that I can provide no further information, Inspector. I am quite certain that Inspector Hathaway will be able to clarify matters for you if necessary.”

“Did he leave of his own choosing, or was he asked to leave?” Dogged as ever, Robbie refuses to be put off. “We can return with a warrant, if you’d prefer.”

A sigh. “Regrettably, I had to ask Mr Hudson to resign his position in the college. And that really is as much...”

“As you can say. Yes. You’ve said. But just let me ask this.” Robbie is now the genial DI Lewis again. “Did you suspect Mr Hudson of using illegal substances?”

A much louder, more irritable sigh; one that’s extremely familiar to James. “Really, Mr Lewis, I do not make it my business to enquire into our students’ personal habits—” And that’s a lie James could challenge him on from experience, but it’s not necessary. He’s with the man who has the best lie-detection instincts James has ever come across.

“Even when they’re against the law? Let me put this to you, Father Connolly: Andrew Hudson had gone beyond personal consumption and was selling to other students. And that’s why you asked him to leave. Is that how it was?”

Father Connolly’s face is turning a very unbecoming shade of purple. James judges that it’s time he stepped in again. “It would be helpful to know of any particular friends or associates Mr Hudson had while he was here, Father. Just a routine enquiry,” he adds. “It helps to build up a picture of the victim if we can speak with people who knew him.”

Connolly gives an irritated click of his tongue. “I will see what I can do, gentlemen. And then, if you don’t mind, I really do have a rather busy day.”

* * *

Outside, Robbie holds out his hand for the car-keys, and nothing more is said until he’s pulling into the car-park of a pub five minutes away. James frowns. “It’s a bit early...”

“Go an’ have a smoke while I get them in. See you inside.”

Well, he won’t say no to having a couple of minutes to pull himself together again. Being back in that building — in that _room_ — is causing so many memories to rise up and assault him. Sacred tenets and credos that he once believed in and that so spectacularly came crashing down after he realised what Will had actually been asking, and how his words had been understood. The scorn and condemnation he’d received as he’d tried to explain his crisis of faith. The coldness once he’d announced his decision to resign...

He stubs out his half-smoked cigarette. Enough. 

Inside, as he dips his head to pass the lintel, his gaze instantly finds Robbie, who’s carrying a couple of coffees to a nook in a deserted corner. 

“Good choice,” he says, brushing his hand against Robbie’s back as he slides into the pew-seat against the wall, leaving the straight-backed chair for Robbie if he wants it. But instead Robbie slides in next to him, close enough that their shoulders and thighs brush.

“I’d rather interview half a dozen bastard con-men than a slimy bureaucrat like that,” Robbie says as he adds sugar to his coffee. James nods, taking a drink instead of answering. Robbie nudges him very gently. “You all right?”

James bites back his instinctive response, a conversation-ending _Fine_ , and forces himself to at least some degree of honesty. “Better than if I’d gone alone.”

Robbie nods, and it’s a few moments before he speaks again. “I’d like to arrest that desiccated old stick-insect.”

“Lying to a police officer? Failing to co-operate with an investigation?”

“Those’d do for a start. Pity I can’t arrest him for the worst of it. He’d no right to issue veiled threats to you like that. For all he knew, I might not have known anything about why you left, and he could’ve put you in a very uncomfortable position with a colleague.”

It’s comforting to know that with Robbie, at a time like this, there’s never any need for words. James inclines slightly so that his shoulder rests more firmly against Robbie’s, and they stay like that until it’s time for the world to intrude once more.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

They’re making progress, but it’s slow. Robbie’s only with them part-time, of course, and he’s been called away to assist with other cases since the seminary visit. James and Maddox have simultaneously been busy and playing the waiting game: waiting for forensics, playing phone tag with the individuals whose names Connolly gave them, waiting for records to be provided. Talking to officers in the drugs squad to find out names of known pharmaceutical methamphetamine dealers — and whether there’ve been any squabbles lately concerning anyone trying to encroach on their territory, or undercut them.

They have managed, at last, to talk to one of Hudson’s contemporaries, now a priest in the northern end of the diocese. He confirms that it was common knowledge that Hudson was taking speed. “I tried to get him to stop. I told him he was destroying his life, but he just didn’t care. And then he apparently got some other students using, and that was it — he was out. I lost contact with him after that. I’m sure it’s not very Christian of me, but I just didn’t want to be associated with a druggie.”

By the end of the third day, their list of possible suspects has grown to six — none of whom has any clear motive, to be honest — and they haven’t been able to eliminate anyone. It’s frustrating all of them, James most of all; he just wants this case _over_ and the paperwork passed on to CPS, so that he doesn’t have to think about anything to do with the seminary or drop-out priests again — or, at least, until the trial, assuming there is now.

Robbie strolls into James’s office at around half-past five and tells James he won’t take no for an answer; it’s time to go home. And James is so fed up with it all that he has no inclination to argue, anyway.

James is quiet over dinner, turning unformed questions over and over in his head, and finally Laura reaches across the table to touch his hand. “This case is really bothering you, isn’t it, James?” After a moment, he looks across at her and nods mutely. “Why? Why this one, out of so many?”

That requires a bit of thought, and rubbing his chin also seems to help the contemplation process. “Unfulfilled potential,” he says at last. It’s not the only thing, but it’s the only thing he can actually put a name to right now.

“But that’s got to be true of so many of your cases,” Laura points out. “Yes, he was a young man, but that’s not that unusual.”

“He was nothing like you, James,” Robbie says, gruffly gentle. “He was a druggie while he was still a student — maybe even a pusher. You chose to leave over doctrinal differences.”

Doctrinal differences — that’s a tactful way of putting it. But, true, that’s what it boils down to. For a moment, he’s again taken back to those awful days before he finally went to talk to Father Connolly and his spiritual director and stated his intentions: long hours of thinking, pacing, not sleeping, and drinking endless cans of Red Bull to maintain his concentration. Doubting everything about himself, not only his vocation but his worth as a human being.

Wait... “There’s something not right here,” he announces, abrupt. “There’s never been a drug problem at St Peter’s. Father Connolly wouldn’t stand for it. When I was there, he threw another student out for smoking weed. Why would he put up with Hudson’s using being common knowledge for months, and only act when he started pushing?”

Laura frowns. “Times do change, James. You were there — what, eight years before Hudson? Maybe it just got more difficult to police drug-taking.”

James considers that for a moment, then shakes his head. “It still doesn’t add up. When Miles Ronson was expelled, Father Connolly stood up in the dining room and told us all what had happened. He took great pleasure in it. So why wouldn’t he tell us that Andrew Hudson was expelled for drug-taking, even if he didn’t want to confirm the dealing? Why would he be so keen to stop us asking questions that he’d breach his own principles of confidentiality to such an extent that he’d refer to my time in the seminary in front of someone he couldn’t even be certain knew that I’d been a student there?”

“Because Andrew Hudson wasn’t the main problem,” Robbie suggests. “Maybe Hudson got his supplies from someone inside the seminary? Someone Connolly doesn’t want to expose — fear, maybe, of what might happen if the hierarchy found out?”

“Or someone who’s still there,” James adds slowly. This is why he and Robbie have always made such a good team; when one of them’s mired in the detail or stuck deep inside their head on a case, the other’s always been able to see more clearly. “Another staff member? Someone Connolly can’t get rid of, for some reason?”

“Find out who’s new since you were there, an’ do background checks.”

He will, yes. It does make sense, though it’s not a conclusion he wants to contemplate at all.

Robbie’s broad hand comes to rest on his shoulder and, although his former governor doesn’t say a word, James knows Robbie understands. He’s already had his illusions about an institution he was once proud to be part of shattered in terms of beliefs. To have them shattered again through finding out that the principal seems prepared to turn a blind eye to criminal activity is just a bit more than he wants to have to cope with right now.

Laura stands, since they’ve all apparently finished eating. “Right! As soon as this lot’s cleared away, you two are reporting for duty. Putting up decorations,” she adds as they both give her puzzled looks.

Right: hanging tinsel and putting a star on top of a tree. Well, at least it’ll be a brief distraction from thinking about why the principal of St Peter’s would turn a blind eye to Class A drugs on the premises. James pushes back his chair. “I await your instructions, Doctor.”

* * *

“A little higher at your end, Robbie!”

James grins as Robbie heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Why can’t James bring his end lower? We can’t all be eight bloody feet tall!”

“Six foot three, to be precise,” James points out. 

“Yeah, well, four inches makes a big difference,” Robbie grumbles, then shakes his head with a snort. “An’ no comments from the peanut gallery!”

James glances at Laura, whose eyes are alight with mirth, and he bursts out laughing. Robbie groans. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get this bloody tinsel up before me arms fall off!”

“I think you’ll find this should be level.” James brings his arm down fractionally, and Laura nods. He and Robbie fasten the strands of tinsel to the wooden beam, then stand back to admire their handiwork. “I approve,” James pronounces. “The red’ll warn me to duck next time I walk under here.”

Laura laughs. “I suppose we really should have taken you house-hunting with us, just to check for clearance!”

“Might’ve, if he hadn’t been walking the breadth of Spain at the time,” Robbie points out. James smiles, indulging their little jokes at his expense; of course they’d never have solicited his opinion on their home prior to purchase. “What’s next?”

What’s next is the tree, which the three of them work on, though James is responsible for ornaments and other decorations near the top. Laura divides her time between giving instructions and keeping them all supplied with wine; while he and Robbie are working tomorrow, it’s Saturday and so they’ve resolved to go in a bit later than they usually would.

Finally, they’re finished and the house is looking appropriately festive. James offers to carry the boxes back up to the loft, and when he comes back the main lights have been dimmed and the tree is lit. He pauses in the entryway to admire the effect; it’s been a very long time since he’s been in a home where people have taken the trouble to decorate for Christmas. Not since the seminary, in fact. It’s surprising to realise that he’s missed it, the warm and intimate atmosphere the festive lights and colours create, the visual and sensory reminders that Christmas is coming.

“Oops!” Laura grabs his arm to steady herself as she collides with him on her way back from the kitchen. 

“Sorry.” Immediately, he wraps an arm around her shoulders to prevent her losing her balance. “Didn’t see you there.”

Robbie coughs pointedly. James turns in his direction, and Robbie tilts his chin upwards meaningfully. James glances upwards, and instantly sees something that he knows wasn’t there when he left the room. Whose bright idea was the bloody mistletoe? 

A quick peck on the cheek would be the polite response; with an amused grin in Laura’s direction, he bends and brushes his lips against the side of her face. Her sigh as he straightens is unexpected.

“Oh, James — I’m not your maiden aunt!” Laura reaches up and pulls his head down closer to her again, and presses her lips to his in what’s absolutely, beyond any doubt not a maiden-aunt kiss.

Over the years, James has imagined circumstances under which he might end up kissing Robbie Lewis, and how those kisses might feel. He has never imagined kissing Laura Hobson, but that tiny fragment of his brain that’s still capable of vaguely rational thought is asking why this idea never crossed his mind before. Because kissing Laura is... sort of wonderful.

He’s still feeling a bit stunned when Laura breaks the kiss, her hands gently caressing his face as she lets him go with a wide smile. And then the spell’s broken as slow applause fills the air.

_Christ_ , Robbie! Stricken, he turns towards his friend, only to see Robbie grinning at him in that faintly mocking way that’s so familiar from years of following the man around as his bagman. “Looked like you two were enjoying that.”

“Um...” James swallows, then runs a hand through his hair. “I... ah, I need a smoke.” He pats his pockets, then escapes outside before either of them can stop him.

* * *

The cold, wintry air hits him like a slap to the face as soon as he steps outside, and it feels like the punch he richly deserves for what he’s just done. As if it’s not bad enough that he’s craved Robbie for years — what, is he now lusting after Laura as well? And just as he’d been congratulating himself on finally getting over his feelings for Robbie?

_James Hathaway, is there anyone in this entire world who is more stupid and self-destructive than you?_

He’s sitting on a chair under the pergola a few minutes later, halfway through a cigarette and wishing that he’d thought to bring his coat, when the door from the kitchen opens. Robbie emerges, wrapped in his bulky anorak and carrying James’s coat over one arm. In his other hand, he’s balancing two mugs as he crunches his way across the frozen layer of snow covering the garden.

“You would rush out without so much as a coat,” Robbie says as he comes closer. “Laura says if you catch pneumonia it’ll be your own fault an’ you needn’t expect her to nurse you through it.”

He half-laughs; it’s more of a self-castigating snort, really. “Thanks.” He pulls the coat on, then accepts the coffee Robbie hands him. “You don’t have to stay out as well,” he adds with a frown as Robbie drops into the chair next to him.

“Ah, reckon I can keep you company for five minutes without me toes freezing off.” Robbie’s tone is light, but his eyes, in the glow from the kitchen window, are kind. “All right?”

“I’m sorry.” He chews the side of his thumb, and that’s something he hasn’t done in years. “I... I shouldn’t have done that.”

To his relief, Robbie doesn’t pretend not to know what he’s talking about. “Don’t be daft. Anyway, Laura’s very much her own woman. If she wants to kiss you, she will.” 

“But you—“ he starts to protest, gaze on Robbie.

Robbie interrupts him. “And, yes, I’m perfectly okay with that. Well, seein’ as it’s you.”

James takes a gulp of coffee, more to buy himself time than because he needs to warm up. Robbie doesn’t _mind_? He can’t for the life of him imagine that he’d be so generous in similar circumstances. 

But it only happened because of the mistletoe. Robbie knows that — and it was Robbie who pointed out that the two of them were standing underneath it. So maybe that’s why he’s able to say it’s okay? It’s just a custom, freedom to kiss a stranger — or someone who isn’t one’s normal kissing partner — without recrimination?

Unable to think of anything to say in return without sounding like a complete prat, he gives Robbie a rueful smile and lights a second cigarette. He expects the other man to go inside at this indication that James will be out here for several minutes yet, but Robbie just smiles back and settles further into his chair.

The smoke from James’s cigarette curls upwards and outwards, mingling with the white of their exhaled breath. Above, through the open slats of the pergola, the clear, dark sky is punctuated with stars. No more snow tonight, at least for the next few hours, James thinks.

“Come on,” Robbie says after the silence has extended halfway through James’s second cigarette. “You’re not really bothered about how I feel about you kissing Laura.”

James shakes his head. “Robbie, there are many things I’ve done wrong in my life so far, and there will be many more. The one thing I never want to risk doing again is damaging my friendship with you. So, yes, I was... _bothered_.”

“All right.” In the light coming from the window, he can see Robbie casually, dismissively, wave his hand. “Just so you know, it’d take a lot more than this, an’ I’d tell you. What’s really on your mind? The past rearing up an’ slapping you in the face again?”

He exhales slowly. As usual, Robbie’s put his finger on it — but then, after all these years, that’s hardly surprising. “You’d think, after all this time, it wouldn’t affect me. And I don’t know if it’s the possibility that a staff member at St Peter’s is dealing in drugs, or coming face to face with Father Connolly again.”

“Stuff o’ nightmares, that bloke. Wouldn’t blame you if it was him.” Robbie reaches across and bumps his fist lightly against James’s arm. “Solution’s easy, though. We solve the case, an’ then you never have to go near the place again.”

“Yeah.” James laughs faintly. “Simple as that, eh?”

“We’ve never failed yet, you an’ me, have we?” Robbie drains his coffee and stands. “Come on, let’s go back inside. Get your guitar out. Laura says she fancies some Christmas music — reckons the two of you can play together.”

“Clarinet or piano?” James asks, standing obediently. 

Robbie pauses. “She was thinking piano — you all right with that?”

“Of course—” Oh. _Crevecoeur_. “No. I never... “ He stops, frowning. “Have you thought, ever since that case...?”

Robbie’s mouth turns down at the corners. “I _hoped_ not. But you never said, and I never felt I could ask.” True; he’d been even more than usually prickly on the subject of anything personal on that case, and been bloody rude to Robbie as well. What this man has forgiven him for over the years... “I’m glad,” Robbie adds, then rests a somewhat chilly hand against James’s back. “Go on, get yourself inside before your fingers can’t feel the strings.”

* * *

They’re just finishing off a late breakfast the next morning when James remembers a minor detail he forgot to mention. “I’m out tomorrow evening, by the way. Shouldn’t be too late back, but I’ll make sure to tiptoe up the stairs if necessary.”

Robbie favours him with one of those mock-offended looks which are so familiar to James. He has an entire catalogue of Robbie Lewis expressions stored in his brain, each one associated with particular types of behaviour, or smart-arse comments, on James’s part. Once or twice during his long walk across Spain — because he couldn’t allow himself the indulgence more frequently — he’d closed his eyes and visualised one of those expressions, the beloved memory sustaining him through many miles of his journey.

“Date, is it?” Robbie enquires, eyebrow raised.

“Performance of the _Messiah_ by Magdalen College choir, actually,” he points out, and takes a drink of coffee.

“Oh, you’re going to that?” Laura sounds interested, and just a bit envious. “I wanted to, but I was supposed to be working. The roster got changed a couple of days ago, but I assume all the tickets are gone by now.”

It’s actually extremely gratifying to know that he can do something nice for Laura for a change. “One ticket or two?” He picks up his phone. “I have _connections_ ,” he points out with a somewhat smug smile.

“I’d go,” Robbie says, sounding interested too. “Well, as long as you don’t expect me to critique the artistic interpretation or know whether the altos were in tune.”

James smirks, then makes his call. Five minutes later, he reports that two additional tickets will be waiting at the college porter’s lodge for collection this afternoon. Laura’s smile is all the thanks he needs.

As he’s putting down his phone, he notices that he has a message. The number’s not familiar, but he listens, hoping that it’s not another case or a complication on any of their current ones. 

By the time he’s listened to the message, he’s not smiling any more. Laura leans across the table to touch his hand. “Problem?”

James exhales slowly. “Yes. Nothing I can’t handle, but it’s annoying.”

“Well, what is it, then?” It’s Robbie pretending to be long-suffering that makes him explain.

“That was my landlord. Apparently, the builders found a problem, and it’s going to be at least early January before I can get back into my flat.”

“Well, that’s hardly a problem.” Robbie’s response is immediate. “You’ll stay here.”

“No, I was going to call the B&B—” he starts to protest, but Laura cuts in.

“You’ll do no such thing! Why wouldn’t you stay on here?”

“I couldn’t possibly intrude — I mean, it’ll be Christmas in less than two weeks. I was supposed to be out of here by Friday.”

“So? We’d assumed you’d stay for Christmas anyway. Robbie was supposed to ask...” Laura gives Robbie what’s clearly a meaningful glance across the table.

“Would have, but someone’s been on the phone most of the morning.” Robbie tilts his head, accompanied by an exaggerated lift of an eyebrow. “But, yeah, we’d like you to. Thought you’d know that, anyway. Course we would. As long as you need, besides.”

“But won’t Lyn and her family be coming down?”

“Not this year.” Robbie pours himself more coffee. “I think she’s pregnant again, though they’ve not said anything. Probably just makin’ sure she’s past the first few months. Thought I’d go up for a couple of days in January, maybe.”

“So that’s settled, then. And without need for me to award you a second strike.” Laura comes around the table, patting James’s arm on her way to the fridge. “You two off to fight crime and cause chaos now?”

“Chaos?” James pretends offence.

“Nah, that’s Peterson.” Robbie finishes his coffee, then nudges James. “Come on, Inspector. Time to show our faces.”

Clearly, the subject’s closed, and he’ll be staying here at least another three weeks. It’s kind of them, very much so, but it’s a kindness part of him would really not have. He’s being allowed this glimpse into the kind of happy domestic life he’s known he’ll never have for himself — and, harder still, seeing _Robbie_ at close quarters happy in a relationship with a woman James can’t even be jealous of, he likes her so much.

He can’t stay — but he must. Refusal would offend.

* * *

James dispatches Lizzie to run background checks on all staff at St Peter’s Seminary, past and present, who’ve been employed there since around 2010. “You’d better include the priests, though I’d focus on the lay staff members,” he recommends. 

There’s still nothing from the drug squad, and Innocent’s breathing down his neck for some close-to-overdue reports, so his day is filled by sifting through paperwork and spreadsheets and trying to keep the resulting narrative from becoming over-sarcastic. It’s tedious work, and he’s more than happy to agree when Laura phones to ask if he’s free for a quick coffee.

He assumes that he’s a convenient substitute, given that Robbie’s busy coaching the nick’s newest inspector through her first major investigation. But he very quickly finds out that’s not the case. 

“I need your advice, actually,” she says once they’re seated with their drinks. “Robbie’s Christmas present.”

James blinks. “You’re asking _me_?”

“After almost eight years when you and he spent nearly every waking hour in each other’s company? Of course I’m asking you!”

James drums his fingers on the table. Over the years, his Christmas presents to Robbie have ranged from alcohol (predictable) to books (generally tongue-in-cheek) and small household appliances (generally self-interested). “I’m not sure he’d really appreciate my input, Laura.”

“What, a volume of obscure metaphysical poetry?” Laura grins. “You’d be surprised, James. He reads some of them aloud to me occasionally. Though I can imagine that’s not what you expected when you gave it to him.” She smiles. “No, I was wondering about a tablet. He’s mentioned Lizzie’s a few times — seems quite taken with it, actually.”

“Hmm.” Now that she mentions it, Robbie has shown a bit of an interest. 

“You know him and technology. I did hear that you had to train him in the art of reading texts.”

“True enough. Mind you, he’s mostly comfortable with a basic smartphone now.” James allows himself an amused grin. “Not sure I can see him ever managing to read his emails on one, but he copes otherwise. A tablet... Well, he couldn’t complain about the screen being too small. And he’s just about learned to swipe rather than stab.”

“That bodes well.” Laura gives him a conspiratorial smile. “So now it’s just a question of which one.”

James shrugs. “They say the iPad is pretty foolproof.” With a smirk, he shakes his head. “I’ll do some research. Android tablets are pretty good these days.”

They take a few minutes to discuss prices and features before James has to get back. Laura’s going in the opposite direction; she tugs on James’s arm to pull him down to her, and to his surprise she kisses his cheek. “Thank you.”

He kisses her back. “Any time.”

* * *

“This may be nothing, but it occurs to me...” Robbie sets two pints on a table in a quiet nook at the Victoria Arms — indoors; even James doesn’t fancy sitting outside while it’s snowing. He nods at Robbie to continue. “Well, normally when you get this kind of drugs-related murder, it’s not an isolated incident. Even if there’s not more murders, there’s talk among the local users and pushers. More money changing hands. Fear, changes in behaviour. Donnelly says the drug squad’s heard nothing.”

“Hmm.” James takes a drink. “So you still don’t think it’s about overdue payments?”

“You don’t either. You didn’t from the start — you just didn’t have anything else to go on.” Robbie downs the top quarter of his pint. “Ah, it’ll keep. You fancy eating here? You know it’s Laura’s girls’ night out.”

“That snow’s going to get worse. Might be better going home — I’ll cook. If that’s all right, of course.” It’s not his kitchen, after all. Not his home, either.

Robbie doesn’t mention his slip. “Makes sense. And, yeah, I think I could let you make me dinner, all right — as long as you don’t get any funny ideas about tofu or nut loaf.”

“I was thinking quinoa.” James grins. “Look, d’you want me to go out and get Laura later? Not that I don’t think she’s a safe driver,” he adds quickly. “But in this weather...”

“She was gettin’ a taxi. Planning on having a glass or two of wine. But, yeah, I’d prefer it if one of us drove her.” Not many taxi-drivers have the kind of advanced training he and Robbie have, of course.

James pushes the rest of his pint aside; Robbie’s almost finished his. “Me, then. Or I’ll drive and you come with me, of course.” He slides out of the high-backed bench. “Sprouted lentil and chickpea rissoles, or salad of legumes and roots?”

* * *

Maddox phones the following morning while James is helping Robbie clear the snow off the driveway. “Sir? Got something from the drugs lads at last.”

“Go on.”

“They got a name — well, a nickname, really — of someone who’s been dealing pharmaceutical methamphetamine around Oxford for four or five years.” Timing’s right, of course; Hudson was at St Peter’s from late 2010. “Not a nickname any of our lads are familiar with, so they’re still digging. He’s known as the Padre.”

Seconds earlier, James was overheated from shovelling. Now, he’s shivering. His voice is staccato as he gives Maddox instructions. “Get back to those background checks for St Peter’s, and this time focus on the priests. All of them, not just new arrivals — no reason to suppose someone couldn’t have got hooked on pills and taken up dealing. Phone me if you find anything.”

He stabs at the end-call button and shoves his phone in his pocket, then fumbles for his cigarettes. It takes a couple of attempts to light up, and by that time Robbie’s at his elbow. “What is it?”

He blows out a trail of smoke. “Our dealer — and most likely our murderer — is a priest.”

Robbie doesn’t comment, but he moves closer, and his hand settles at the small of James’s back, pressing firmly, reassuringly. Gradually, the warmth of Robbie’s presence drives away the arctic chill that’s settled inside him.

“We’ll get him,” Robbie says at last. “Come on, we’ve still got half a driveway of snow to shovel.”

* * *

“Do you think he might be someone you know?” Laura asks over lunch.

“Oh, God, I hope not.” James shakes his head. “Things are bad enough without arresting someone I might’ve taken Communion from.”

“Come on, man, you should know one bad apple doesn’t reflect on everyone.” Robbie points out, as usual getting at what’s really unsettling him here. “Remember Jack Cornish last year?”

“I’m hardly likely to forget driving hours across half the Balkan peninsula without even speaking the local languages, no.” He smiles wryly. “But... point taken.”

Laura squeezes his hand. “You’ll get to the bottom of it. And then you can put it out of your mind.”

James smiles faintly. “As my old governor used to say, there’s always the next case.”

“Aye, there is that.” Robbie raises his mug in a sign of acknowledgement.

After lunch, James announces he’s going out for a few hours. It’s partly to take care of some things, including picking up some contributions to the larder, as well as finding what he wants for Laura’s Christmas present — Robbie’s is already safely ordered online — and partly that he needs some time and space away from them. It’s getting far too easy to fall into the embrace of their continued welcome and warmth, to allow himself to feel that he’s part of this household and that the three of them are somehow in some kind of relationship, whatever that is. Laura’s casual touches and kisses, Robbie’s genial, gruff kindness and pats on the back... it’s getting far too easy to imagine they mean more than is intended.

And too easy to want to touch them in return — both of them; Laura now every bit as much as Robbie. Do more than touch. And that, of course, would not be welcomed with such warmth and affection.

It doesn’t help him in achieving a degree of detachment when, in answer to his enquiry whether he can do anything for Robbie or Laura while he’s out, Robbie fetches his dry-cleaning — as James is taking his own suits in, anyway — and hands it over with a grin and a “Thanks, dear.”

And he’s going to the Messiah performance with them tonight, too. Maybe they’ll be sitting separately? That would be for the best, really: to allow Robbie and Laura to enjoy their evening out together as a couple, without him playing gooseberry yet again.

But it doesn’t work out that way. As they walk into Magdalen College Chapel, Laura slides her hand through James’s arm. “Where’s the best place to sit for acoustics?” When James tells her, she smiles. “Excellent — I see three seats together. Come on!”

Laura sits between him and Robbie and, although through much of the performance she’s leaning against Robbie’s shoulder, from time to time she pats James’s arm or nudges him with her shoulder and gives him a smile. And of course he can’t say anything, because what would he say? _Please don’t touch me_? Hurtful and ungrateful, without a reason. And with a reason? _Don’t touch me, because it only makes me fall more in love with you_? Unthinkable.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

It does help that he gets another callout early the next morning, which keeps him and Maddox busy all day — and in which neither Robbie nor Laura are involved. It’s a sad case of murder-suicide; no doubt at all about the determination, particularly considering the husband left a note explaining all. Severely disabled wife, a husband who simply couldn’t cope, and insufficient social service support, all confirmed through conversations with friends, neighbours and social services. There is apparently no family.

By seven or so, James is able to assign the remaining checks and reports to Maddox; she can delegate what she needs to. He’s already had a voicemail from Robbie asking when he’s likely to get home, and he wouldn’t put it past Laura to follow up at any minute. So he heads back to _chez_ Lewis and Hobson.

Robbie’s heard about the case, of course, and Laura was also aware of it from the pathologist involved, but hadn’t realised until Robbie told her that James was the DI involved. “Tough for you,” she says, squeezing his arm, and directs him to sit at the table. “You’ll be relieved to know that I cooked tonight.”

“No voyages of discovery, then?” Robbie glares at him, and James gives him a bland smile.

“You were out so much I didn’t get a chance to ask. Any new developments on the Hudson case?” Robbie asks as they eat.

James shakes his head briefly. “Maddox is trying to get a description of the Padre that we could at least compare to the seminary staff information we have, but apparently it’s difficult to get people to talk.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’d love to get SOCO to turn the entire seminary upside down looking for evidence, but there’s nowhere near enough for a warrant.”

Robbie nods. “You’ll get there. You’re close, I can feel it.”

James grins at that. “Seem to recall someone I worked for saying that a lot.”

“Yeah, an’ I was usually right, wasn’t I?”

* * *

The following day is an exercise of frustration at work, with no developments at all in the Hudson case and endless requests for reports from CPS, Innocent, working groups on various efficiency initiatives and so on. James is getting better at delegating to Lizzie, but most of the reports and updates are things he needs to do himself.

The frustration’s exacerbated by the fact that leads seem to have dried up completely on the murder case. The drug squad’s got nothing new, and after James’s third phone call on the matter he received a call from one of the DIs on the squad asking that he cease and desist. No other enquiries have led anywhere. He’s not going to give up, though. If he absolutely has to, he’ll bring Father Connolly down to the station for a formal interview; he knows that old spider knows a lot more than he’s telling, and a bit of subtle intimidation might just get him somewhere.

But not yet. It’s a risky strategy; the man’s just as likely to demand a solicitor and clam up completely. And, since they haven’t proven that someone in the seminary’s dealing drugs, there’s nothing they can charge him with. Yet.

He’s weary and fed up by the time he arrives back at Robbie and Laura’s house and, as his gaze alights on Laura curled up on the sofa with her head on Robbie’s shoulder, the thought strikes him that he’d give anything to swap places with her. Or, alternatively, to do the same on Robbie’s other side. Or even Laura’s — and that’s definitely new.

Watching them feels like he’s peering through a frosted window from the outside, gazing in on a scene of happiness he’s not part of, nor could ever expect to be. Being here at all feels as if he’s intruding, getting a glimpse of something private, not his to see. And he can’t just stand here and wait for them to notice him. It’s not right for him to disturb their casual intimacy here.

Instead, he calls a casual greeting and heads to the kitchen. The least he can do to repay them for their hospitality is to cook occasionally. It’s not always possible, of course, given the unpredictability of his working hours, but tonight he’s home at a reasonable time, and Robbie and Laura have clearly decided to have a few minutes to themselves to relax before starting the meal. 

Though the two of them wander out into the kitchen to join him after a little while, bringing an already-open bottle of wine and getting another glass for him. The conversation’s light and general as he cooks, and again he finds himself drawn into the warmth and congeniality of their company. He’ll miss this so much when he moves back to his flat. It would have been better to have stayed at the B&B, really; he’d never have had this insight into what he’s missing, and would never have realised how much it matters to him.

_’Tis better to have loved and lost..._ He strongly suspects that he and Tennyson would not see eye to eye on that one.

* * *

“This is great!” Robbie says of his Moroccan lamb tagine later. “You keep making things like this, I reckon we’ll have to extend your tenancy.”

He hides the sudden leap of his heart with a lop-sided smile. “Oh, you really wouldn’t want me as a lodger. I have it on good authority that a little of me goes a long way.”

“I’d look for better sources if I were you, James,” Laura comments with a raised eyebrow. Robbie grins, tilting his glass in a silent, amused toast.

After dinner, James has just come in from having a smoke as Laura’s making her way from the kitchen to the living-room. She stops next to him and, with an impish grin, points upwards. 

With a sense of inevitability, James takes in the sprig of green and the white berries above his head. “We must stop meeting like this.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Her eyes are alight with mischief. “I quite enjoyed the last time.”

“But...” He inclines his head towards Robbie, who’s still in the kitchen finishing the washing-up.

“If he’s jealous, he can bloody well kiss you himself, can’t he?” She links her arms around his neck, tugging him down. James glances at Robbie, absorbing the blatant amusement on his former governor’s face, and yields.

The second kiss is even better than the first, and, oh _Christ_ , he’s never going to survive another three weeks of living with Robbie and Laura, is he?

It’s even worse when Robbie joins them, looping his arms around both their shoulders and kissing first Laura and then James on the cheek before breaking away and declaring that it’s time for a drink.

James takes the opportunity to slip away from Laura, picking up his guitar and suggesting some music, purely because it’ll force him to focus on something other than his hosts, and in particular the memory of both those kisses. Robbie kissing his cheek — it’s something that’s never happened before, and an intimacy he never allowed himself to imagine could happen. With relief, at around ten he escapes to bed with the excuse of having been up early due to the callout. 

He still lies awake for a couple of hours, trying to get his thoughts and his body under control. Christ, if Robbie and Laura had even the faintest idea about how he feels, they’d have him out the door so fast his feet wouldn’t touch the ground.

Or, actually, they wouldn’t, would they? They’d be _kind_ , and that would be far, far worse.

* * *

“We’ve got something, sir,” Maddox says almost breathlessly when James gets to the nick the next day. “The Hudson murder. Someone’s given DS Bryant a description of a ring. Says the Padre’s never without it, and it’s a bit unusual.”

“Yes?”

“Well, it’s... they think it might be a religious symbol. Bloke in a pointy hat and robes, and he’s carrying a hooked stick. I think maybe like the things bishops carry? Would that mean anything to anyone — I mean, maybe we could ask a priest?”

“No need.” James goes to the nearest computer and calls up a browser. In seconds, he has the image he was looking for. “Is this it?” 

Maddox peers closely at it. “Well, it looks like the description. I’d have to get Bryant to take a look. Does it help at all, sir?”

James swings around to look at her, hitting the print button at the same time. “St Augustine of Hippo. A religious order within the Catholic Church is dedicated to him, and its adherents often wear a ring just like that.” She’s looking at him in amazement, as she does whenever he reveals knowledge that, in her head, normal people don’t possess. “I’m Catholic,” he says briefly. “Right, get that to Bryant.”

Maddox hurries off, and James goes to his desk and pulls out the biographical information of the priests on staff at the seminary, and the emailed description Bryant had sent him late last night. In under a minute, he has his man. Father Thomas Bell, ordained into the Augustinian order in 1995, and a resident instructor at St Peter’s since 2010. The photo matches Bryant’s rough description, and the ring, of course, is the clincher. 

Now, he just needs to hope that this is enough to get him a search warrant.

With Bryant’s support, it is. He has the warrant by early afternoon, and he’s smiling as he phones Robbie to update him. “Maddox and I are going over with SOCO and uniforms now. Want to come?”

“Try an’ stop me!” is Robbie’s immediate response.

* * *

Father Connolly is all supercilious disdain when James and Robbie are brought into his study, which turns into a frown of disapproval once he notices Maddox behind them. Before he can say a word, James strides over, the warrant in his hand. 

“Father. This is a search warrant, and it allows my colleagues to search as much of these premises as I deem fit.” He takes note of the instant flash of fear on Connolly’s face, and adds, “You are advised not to try to obstruct us in any way. You’re not obliged to co-operate, but I assure you that if you do it will make a difference before the courts if you are arrested.”

“Arrested? What—” 

James turns to Maddox. “Can you get the search started, Sergeant? Focusing on Father Bell’s quarters, of course, and elsewhere as needed. And have Father Bell cautioned and taken to the station for questioning.”

“Yes, sir.” Maddox disappears, the rest of the officers at her heels.

Connolly looks at James, his mouth opening and closing helplessly. After a moment, he says, “James... erm, Detective Inspector Hathaway.” He corrects himself hurriedly at James’s forbidding stare. “If I might explain...”

James nods at Robbie, who closes the study door. “I think that would be an excellent idea, Father. You won’t mind if my colleague DI Lewis is present? No, I thought not,” he adds without giving Connolly an opportunity to object.

Connolly sinks into a chair so abruptly he resembles a puppet whose strings have snapped. “I... The bishop doesn’t need to hear about this, does he?”

James allows his eyes to widen in studied incredulity. “I should think it’s unavoidable, Father. As is, I strongly suspect, your imminent removal from your post.”

“And that’s the least of your worries,” Robbie adds. “What you seem to be failing to appreciate, Father, is that at the very least we’re likely to charge you with criminal negligence. And if we find out that you lied to us before about how much you knew...”

Connolly swallows. “In... in the circumstances, as you do have a search warrant, I... may not feel myself bound by confidentiality any more...” 

James just about manages to prevent himself from revealing the absolute contempt he’s feeling. So the old hypocrite’s a coward underneath it all. That’s something he would not have suspected during his time in this establishment, nor on that painful, ugly day when he’d faced scorn and humiliation as he’d tried to explain the crisis that had led him to question his faith and his vocation.

_How are the mighty fallen!_

“I would strongly suggest that you tell us everything that might be relevant.” He lowers himself into Connolly’s own desk chair, noting as he does that it’s higher than the seat Connolly himself has taken, and waits.

It doesn’t take long. The whole story comes spilling out — spun, of course, to try to minimise any blame falling on Connolly’s shoulders, though it does only serve to make him appear to be the most gullible, stupid person in existence. Bell joined the teaching staff at the seminary in 2009, obtaining a resident role a year later. Some months after that, in what Connolly describes as a “routine” check, pills were found in Bell’s room — by whom, they can establish in a formal interview later. Connolly confronted Bell and threatened to have him sacked, at which point Bell threatened him. “He was going to lie to the bishop about me. He’d have got me removed from my post. I couldn’t...” 

Excuses, excuses. James meets Robbie’s eye over Connolly’s head and acknowledges, though can’t reciprocate, his friend’s exasperated eye-roll. Robbie never has had any time for self-important potentates, in any area of Oxford hierarchy.

James cuts across Connolly’s self-justifications. “Tell me about Andrew Hudson.” 

Hudson was an addict, as they’d suspected. However, not when he took up his studies at the seminary. Bell’s doing, Connolly hints — but then Hudson did start re-selling to some other students, at which point Bell demanded his expulsion.

“And the murder of Mr Hudson?” Robbie asks, an edge to his voice. “What can you tell us about that?”

Connolly swallows. “Hudson came back.” He sounds as if he’s being strangled. “There was an overdose.”

“Explain.”

“A student went home for Reading Week and overdosed on his drugs.” The distaste is Connolly’s voice is so hypocritical James wants to hit him. “The police in Bournemouth ruled it accidental. There was nothing to tie the incident back to here. Just a sad misfortune.”

“Misfortune!” Robbie’s furious, but controlling it. “Two young men are dead, Mr Connolly. Both of whom had futures ahead of them that mattered to them. You can deny responsibility all you like, but you knew the problem existed and you turned a blind eye.”

“Continue, please.” James’s words are clipped.

“He threatened us. He was going to go to the police. Father Bell said he’d sort it.”

“And so he killed him.” Robbie’s standing now, looming over Connolly.

“I didn’t know that’s what he meant! When he came back with the knife, dripping with blood...”

“Where is the murder weapon?” James stands as well. As Connolly hesitates, he adds, “You are going to be charged. The more co-operation you give us at this point, the better your chance of getting some degree of leniency in sentencing.”

Connolly’s hand is in his cassock pocket — fumbling with his rosary, James assumes. Weakly, he says, “He rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher. It’s probably back in the rack in the kitchen by now.”

Trying to remove DNA traces and fingerprints, of course. Not that that will help; Laura will still be able to match the knife with the wound.

“I’ll brief SOCO.” Robbie goes to the door, leaving James to arrest and caution Connolly, who’s still protesting that he was a victim of circumstances and that he was only trying to do what was best. 

“If you’d genuinely wanted to do the right thing, Father, you’d have come to the police as soon as you found the drugs in Bell’s room,” James points out, not bothering to hide the contempt in his voice. “You could even have come straight to me — you did know I was a police officer.”

Five minutes later, it’s over. The priest is in a uniform car, in handcuffs, and he and Robbie are walking out of the seminary into crisp, fresh air.

James pauses in the car park and takes several deep breaths. After a moment, a hand presses warmly against his back. “Know what you mean. The smell of hypocrisy in there was makin’ me start to choke too.”

It isn’t just that, and Robbie alone of everyone except perhaps Laura knows it. But Robbie understands without any need for James to explain.

They stand, close together, next to the car a bit longer, fresh snowfall turning their shoulders and hair white, until Robbie squeezes James’s shoulder. “Come on, man. Let’s get back and you can decide how long you want them to stew before you interview them.”

James nods, but before moving he presses his hand to Robbie’s back. He doesn’t say thanks, but he knows Robbie understands.

* * *

Interviewing the two priests is a lengthy and often frustrating process, though James gives himself some secret enjoyment by turning Maddox loose on Connolly. The man’s a misogynist, but at the same time he’s practically falling over himself to incriminate Bell. James, however, wants enough to get Connolly convicted for, at the very least, conspiracy in relation to Bell’s drug-dealing, if not accessory to murder. 

He’s in his office at close to eleven o’clock that night when he gets a call from Laura. “I’m glad I’ve got your photo next to your name on my mobile. Might forget what you look like.”

“Hah, very funny.” James leans back in his chair. “I’m just going through the SOCO report from the seminary. If Robbie’s there, you can tell him I haven’t charged Bell yet — I need the results on the knife and a fingerprint match.”

“If that’s a dig at me, James Hathaway...”

“As if I would dare.” He closes his eyes, imagining Laura and Robbie snuggled together on the sofa in their cosy living-room, listening to music in the glow of the Christmas lights. He could be there with them, sprawled in the armchair... But, no, this needs to be done, and anyway, there’s only so much he can bear.

“You’ll get my report on the knife tomorrow morning, Inspector. And since I imagine any sensible SOCO has gone home long ago, don’t you think you should too?”

“I’ve got to get them, Laura.” He must be tired, or he’d never have revealed so much.

“I know.” Her voice is very, very gentle. “Just remember one thing, James.”

“What?”

“Just because you and Robbie found two murdering optometrists, that doesn’t mean the whole profession’s bad.”

“I know.” It’s still surprisingly reassuring to hear her make the point.

“Good. So, you’ll be going to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve? Because Robbie and I would like to go with you, if that’s all right.”

He doesn’t need his hand held — but that’s not why she’s offering, and he knows it. “That would be lovely, Laura. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Just get your arse home before midnight, or I won’t cook Robbie’s favourite cholesterol-ridden breakfast on Saturday and I’ll blame you.”

James shakes his head. “There are times I’m very glad I had Robbie as my boss and not you, Laura. All right, I’m leaving now.”

* * *

Bell breaks the following afternoon when the full forensics results come in, matching his fingerprints to those found on Hudson’s body. They have a signed confession by early evening, and both Bell and Connolly are now in custody, awaiting their first appearances in court.

The diocese has also acted swiftly, removing both from their posts at the seminary and installing an interim principal, a professor of theology from Cambridge. He taught James, though probably wouldn’t remember; James, on the other hand, remembers him well and thinks it’s an excellent appointment. There may well be other staff members who knew what was going on at St Peter’s, and an outsider with a strong reputation for integrity is just what the seminary needs.

Nothing can change the fact that two young men are dead; men who had, as Robbie’d said to Connolly, hopes and dreams and promising futures. Bell wrecked their lives, and then brought about their deaths. At least, though, he’s got justice for Andrew Hudson, who tried to do the right thing and lost his life for it, and for Michael Kennedy, whose parents now have the comfort of knowing that someone will pay the penalty for their son’s untimely and unnecessary death.

He lets himself into the house at close to seven, instantly smelling something Italian and delicious. As he comes through to the kitchen, Robbie immediately walks over and wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Told you you’d get them.”

Laura’s close behind, bearing a glass of white wine — ah, chicken or vegetable pasta, most likely. “I hope you’ll have the weekend off, after all this?”

“He’s at the bottom of the rota. I checked.” Robbie steers James to the dining table. “And you’re off-duty on Christmas Day, too, aren’t you?”

James sits and accepts the plate of seafood linguine Laura passes him. “Well, unless something comes up, of course.”

“With the hours you’ve put in on this one, Innocent’s going to want to see you have a decent break.” Robbie passes the garlic bread.

Conversation over dinner switches to holiday destinations for next year, with Robbie and Laura debating the respective merits of Bavaria and central Spain. Laura’s interested in Madrid and Toledo, as well as paying visits to a few vineyards, while Robbie fancies touring the Alps and going to a beer festival or two. “What do you think, James?” Laura asks. “If you had the deciding vote?”

“Me?” He slides his wine-glass over so Robbie can top it up, resolving to make another stop at Victoria Wine on his way back tomorrow; it’s time he contributed a few more bottles. “Why should I have a say? It’s your holiday.”

“Would you come with us? If we chose somewhere you’d be interested in?” Robbie asks.

James almost spills his wine. “What? Why would you want—”

“Why wouldn’t we?” Laura tilts her head and gives him a challenging look. “We all get on well, and you like the same sort of things we do. I could go to art galleries with you when Robbie’s decided he’s had enough of culture. And, yes, I know you walked the Camino de Santiago last year, but I’m talking about a different part of Spain.”

Go on holiday with the two of them? It’s so very tempting, but also bloody terrifying. Difficult enough to avoid letting his guard down when he’s only with them in the evenings, apart from occasional time spent with Robbie at work, but to be in their company up to seventeen hours a day...

“Think about it, eh?” Robbie says. “We can talk about it again. And, yeah, Laura, he’s been to Spain. Germany’d be a much better choice.”

“I’ve been to Germany too, if you recall,” James points out.

“What, you’re not counting a couple of hours in the _Behörde des Bundesbeauftragten_ in Berlin, are you? The Stasi Records Agency,” Robbie explains for Laura’s benefit.

“Stop trying to influence him.” Laura reaches across the table and pats James’s hand. “Think about visiting the Prado, or climbing the hill to Toledo Cathedral.”

James laughs. “I’m thinking of which of you I’m most scared of offending.” He smiles ruefully at Robbie. “Sorry, but I think it’s Laura.”

Laura’s instant smile is very smug.

* * *

After helping to clear up the detritus of the meal, James takes the opportunity to change out of his work clothes. When he comes downstairs a few minutes later, in worn-soft jeans and a favourite chambray shirt, Robbie and Laura are standing close together near the sofa, speaking quietly. Immediately, Laura notices James and coughs faintly, and as they break apart James spots the quickly-hidden guilty look on Robbie’s face.

_Shit_. In all his agonising about why staying here is bad for his state of mind and ability to stop longing for things he can’t have, it’s never once occurred to him that there may be reasons why his being here is bad for Robbie and Laura. Inconvenient, to say the least; this is their home, and they’re about to celebrate their first Christmas here, and they can’t even get two minutes of privacy because he’s always underfoot. Yes, they did invite him to stay, and they’ve just asked if he’d like to go on holiday with them, but they’re both kind people. Of course they offered him the shelter of their roof, once they realised his only option was a bed and breakfast.

“Guys, look...” He composes his best apologetic and understanding expression. “This isn’t fair on you, me being—”

“James.” Robbie interrupts him in a very familiar long-suffering, _You’re being an idiot, Hathaway, but I’ll forgive you_ tone. “Stop talking.”

He blinks. “Eh?”

“Like I said. Shut up.” Robbie’s strolling closer as he speaks, and he comes to a halt close enough to James that they’re almost touching. James, completely at a loss, looks down at Robbie with a questioning frown.

Robbie points upwards. 

He doesn’t even need to look. Crap. That bloody mistletoe again. Why didn’t it occur to him to sneak down in the wee hours some night and get rid of it?

“My turn, I think,” Robbie says, one eyebrow raised and with an upward curve of one side of his mouth that’s more of a smirk than a smile. _”What are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me_ , isn’t that how it goes?”

James’s brain is busy telling him that, logically, this cannot be happening. He must have misunderstood. Misheard. But Robbie’s reaching for him, sliding a hand around his neck and pulling him down. And Laura’s come up behind him and has wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning into him. And then Robbie _is_ kissing him, firm and confident, and shifting closer so that their bodies are pressed together. And James might have once upon a time intended to be a priest, but he’s not able to resist this degree of temptation.

With a groan, he yields and kisses Robbie back, parting his lips as the other man deepens the kiss and seeks entry. Laura’s face is pressed against his back now, and her hands are stroking his chest, and there’s no way he can question that this is something they both seem to want from him. It makes no sense, but... it is.

Several kisses later, they finally come up for air, though Robbie’s hand stays resting against his neck. Laura moves to stand beside them, a broad smile on her face. “At last!”

“I have so many questions...” James begins, and he can hear the bewilderment in his voice.

Laura takes his hands in hers. “You’re the DI, James. Can’t you work it out?”

Robbie tuts. “Told you he’d never figure it out on his own, no matter how many subtle hints you thought you were dropping. James, man...” Robbie’s looking back at James again, and there’s a warmth in his eyes James has only ever seen directed at Laura before. “We want you with us, an’ not just as a mate. Only if you want to, like. But I think you do.”

He’s still struggling to take the words in when Laura emits a sigh of mock-despair. “Oh, Robbie! Still bloody useless at telling him how you really feel, even after all these years. James.” She squeezes his hands. “We love you. Oh, we both have for a long time, of course, but it changed into wanting you to be part of our relationship after you came back from Spain.”

“I... think I need to sit down.” As an answer, it’s less than woefully inadequate, but it’s all he can manage.

Robbie laughs, cuffing him gently on the shoulder, and Laura leads him to the sofa, where he’s tugged down to sit in between them. Laura’s still holding one hand, so with his other he reaches out for Robbie, who grips him warmly, affectionately. After a few moments, he feels able to try speech again. “I... yes, this — first Robbie, and more recently both of you — it’s something I’ve... dreamed about for a long time. But I never thought...” He shakes his head again. “I’m not dreaming now, am I?”

“I can pinch you if you like,” Laura offers, but then stretches up to kiss him, leaving him in absolutely no doubt that he’s wide awake. “When you were in Spain, I think we were both taken aback by how much we missed you. Not that we didn’t expect to miss having you around, but things just didn’t feel right without you.”

“It’s always been the three of us, hasn’t it?” Robbie continues. “You an’ me sometimes, Laura an’ me other times, even you and Laura once or twice. But a lot of the time, the three of us together — working, having drinks, talking. So when you weren’t around at all, it just didn’t feel right.”

“To both of us,” Laura adds, and he knows she’s intending to reassure him that she wants this for herself; she’s not just trying to make Robbie happy. And that neither of them is doing it because they feel sorry for him. 

“I missed you,” he says, for the first time admitting it aloud. “Yes, both of you. I kept imagining you complaining that I wasn’t getting enough sleep, Laura — and I’d try the local wine in a village and try to decide whether you’d enjoy it. So, yes,” he adds, “I’d love to tour central Spain with you. And, Robbie, I’d love to hear you speaking German with the locals.” He tilts his head on one side. “You know, we _do_ get six weeks’ holiday a year...”

“Makes sense to me,” Robbie says with a grin, before beckoning James towards him again. “But, by my reckoning, you owe me at least two more kisses before I’m level with Laura. So get yourself over here, canny lad.”

He does.

* * *

Christmas Day is clear, cold and very snowy. They made it in late from Midnight Mass last night, walking the almost-mile back from the church ankle-deep in fresh snowfall, and warmed themselves up with a tot of whisky before snuggling together in the big bed in what’s become their bedroom. The size of the bed surprised James on that first night, until Laura’d given a rueful laugh and explained that they’d bought it after that first murder case with the three of them back on the job together. “It was a gesture of faith, I suppose,” she said. “That this would actually happen.”

They’re curled up against each other on the sofa now, mugs of hot chocolate with a shot of Bailey’s within reach, as they open presents. Robbie pretends to be bemused over the Android tablet Laura’s got him, though James knows he’s secretly chuffed to bits. Robbie’s given Laura jewellery, a delicate ruby pendant that sparkles in the firelight when she puts it on. 

James gets an enthusiastic kiss from Laura when she sees the silk scarf he’s given her — ordered direct from Liberty in the end, as the grey panthera pattern he knew would be perfect for her wasn’t available anywhere locally. And Robbie gives an exasperated snort when he opens the large package with his name on it: a long wool overcoat. “Knew you’d eventually find a way to get rid of me anorak, didn’t I? Been complaining about it for years, you have.”

“With good reason,” James points out. Laura just laughs and insists that Robbie stand up and try the new coat on. It does look good on him, and not just because James was very exact with the sizing when he ordered.

“There! Now you look like a proper Inspector,” Laura says, and pats James on the back. “Well done!”

“Oi,” Robbie grumbles, but his hand’s smoothing over the soft wool and cashmere blend, and when he takes it off he drops down and immediately kisses James.

There’s nothing left under the tree, but Robbie leaves the room for a few moments, and when he returns he’s carrying a wrapped package in a rather familiar shape. James simply stares at the genuine Gibson acoustic guitar case — an original but in mint condition, and exactly the right size for his beloved instrument. “Noticed yours was lookin’ a bit battered,” Robbie says, laying a hand on James’s thigh.

“Open it,” Laura says, nudging James.

Inside, there’s a folded piece of paper which, when he opens it, is a photocopy of the first page of the mortgage agreement on this house. His name’s been added, in Robbie’s handwriting, next to the two of theirs at the top of the agreement. “If you want, o’course,” Robbie says as James takes in what’s being offered. He doesn’t even have to consider to know it’s got nothing to do with sharing the costs of living here. “We thought it’s time you told your landlord he can keep his flat. You’ve found somewhere better to live.”

“I want to,” he says immediately. 

He has found somewhere better. For the first time in his life, he’s found a home.

* * *


End file.
